One Shots
by vega-de-la-lyre
Summary: Many oneshots and vignettes stretching across three generations of different CCD characters. Some stories are connected. Some can stand on their own. Some are decidely strange. Number Fourteen: Turn of the Season.
1. Kissing Flauvic

Being with Flauvic turns me into a hopeless bundle of clichés.

Kissing him only makes it worse.

I would marry him right now only on the strength of the dizzying shivers that shoot through me when he is near me, when he touches my hand. I would marry him on the spot even if I didn't love him for all the things he is, the things I love about him- for just the way he _talks _to me, for how he knows me so well, how he knows how I react, how he knows what I will say- and how delighted he is when I surprise him. And for the bitter little broken boy that is hidden deep under the surface... oh, I love him for all these things, and I need him, somehow, to know that.

When he kisses me like he is now, he makes me feel- I hate to say it, but he makes me feel that I'm perfect, that he's perfect, that the world's perfect, that there are no obstacles in our way...

...And that's where the cliché part comes in.

But I know that love is the greatest cliché of all, that it makes you feel these things.

Suddenly, Flauvic breaks away from me, and I can feel him going still.

'Flauvic, what-' 

He lays a finger on my lips. 'Wait.'

I watch how his coin-gold eyes glint in the darkness even as I cock my head to listen as he is- and then I hear it.

'Elestra!' My mother and sister are calling me from inside, from my rooms. They are back from the concert, and no doubt wondering why I had left halfway through.

With a light kiss on my lips, Flauvic climbs the balcony railing and is about to leap to the bushes below, a rose among the thorns. We have an unspoken agreement, he and I- Mama and Papa have adjusted to the idea of us, but even so, we aren't about to test things by having them find us kissing on the balcony outside the Residence.

'Flauvic...' Something in me needs to ask it, though I do so shyly, like the awkward young girl that I no longer am. 'Flauvic, will you come to me if I call for you?'

His answer is properly romantic and nonsensical- clichéd- as befits the occasion. 'Elestra,' he says. 'I will go there and back again.'

I can see him grinning wryly in the darkness as I try to decipher his answer-

-And then he is gone, moving noiselessly through the gardens, and I turn to face my family with a smile, for I know now that he loves me as much as I love him.


	2. A Pirate's Cutlass

Alaerec of Renselaeus sits on the deck of a merchant ship, perched atop a barrel of wine, one shining boot swinging back and forth. His head rests against the wall of the captain's cabin as he gazes out over the water, sharp eyes scanning the dark sea.

He runs a gloved hand absently over the hilt of his sword. It isn't the first time that he wonders whether he would actually be of any use, should pirates attempt to board the ship. He's brave enough- no coward, or at least if he was, it hadn't yet shown- but he's been trained classically, as a gentleman, and he is young, and has little practical experience in combat.

As he breathes in the crisp night air with lips quickly going numb, and gazes at the stars in a velvet dark sky, he only wants to go home to Elestra.

From the sash at his waist, Captain Greyde of the _Deliverance_ pulls out a bronze spyglass. It is old, and battered; a spider's web of hairline cracks tracing its way up the casing. Greyde soon snaps the spyglass shut and leans on the railing of his ship casually, triumphant and exhilarated. A fiery dawn, all scarlet, pink, and purple billowing clouds, fights it way over the morning sky.

There's a merchant ship on the horizon, lying low in the water with the weight of its cargo. But what makes him smile is the young officer pacing the deck. He is young, straight-backed, cool-eyed. Useless, of course, as protection against any real threat.

Greyde is a real threat, and decides to cut him to shreds before the day is done.

His crew is assembled behind him, watching warily. Misfits and vagabond outcasts, all, and none with any real loyalty to their captain. They serve out of fear, not love.

Little Saoirse refuses to meet her captain's eyes. She had left her home, a port city, after being chased out as a thief, and had fit easily into piratical society. They'd tossed her younger brother Cathaír, along with five other men, overboard the night before as mutineers; the girl had been smart enough to stay our of whatever ill-fated scheme they'd concocted, and had no qualms about telling the captain so very clearly, although since last night she'd wandered around looking dazed and ill.

The girl would be terrified to the brink of being sick before a boarding- she was right now- but once they attacked, she fought like a cornered cat. Excellent instinct for self-preservation.

Perhaps Greyde will set the girl to kill the gentleman officer, to get her pretty head out of the clouds.

As though sensing her captain's thoughts, Saoirse swallows hard, fingers playing over the hilt of her cutlass as she shifts it about in the sheath.

Calmy, Greyde says, 'We'll board by noon.' The crew draws away from the captain as he stalks toward his cabin, boots muffled on the wooden deck of the _Deliverance_.


	3. A Party

Outside, the wind and snow whistled and raged through a black starless night. Inside the Residence, though, the fires and festivities kept the rooms warm to the point of sweltering. Auré, from the humid, hot land of the Chwair, revelled in the warmth, but trembled inwardly at the thought of making her way through the cold halls to the rooms she and her mother shared.

She sat alone on a stiff couch in a dimly- lit corner of the room, hands folded and ankles crossed primly, back straight. Auré didn't know anybody else in the room, and was very lonely, for she was young and used to chattering non-stop to her friends at home. Her stomach wrenched at the very thought of _them_... going on without _her_...

So there she sat, with a polite half-smile on her lips, watching her mother paying her respects to the two hosts of the party, young newlyweds by the names of Elestra and Alaerec. Auré rather liked Elestra's looks, with her slanting, teasing green eyes, but Elestra and Alaerec had eyes for no one but each other, ignoring all rules of propriety. Alaerec was a soldier, an officer in the Remalnan army, so it was no wonder why Auré's mother was talking so animatedly to him- she was the ambassador from Chwairsland, and had a hungry desire to know all and sundry about her new home (temporary though it might prove to be).

Auré herself loathed everything about this country. No, that wasn't right, she decided as she mulled over her situation in her dim corner, she didn't hate Remalna, but it was just all too strange to her eyes and ears. The weather was freezing cold and rainy. The people in Remalna were stiff, and well mannered, and deceptive, and said nothing about what they really meant or cared about, or if they did, Auré could not decipher it.

The idea of beauty in this land was cultivated and artificial, and the people found no pleasure in the wild violence of nature, as did Auré. The songs that they played here were over-complicated and over-arranged, nothing like the weird, untamed music of the flutes and drums of the people of Chwair- the common people, not the court, the kings, the aristocrats.

Auré had only heard the music herself once or twice as a child, for it was forbidden under pain of death- though that didn't stop most people. The music had never left her mind- it was always lurking just behind her thoughts, notes drilled into her brain, trilling, thundering, rising in a crescendo till she had a splitting headache. She loved it with a passion- but to the Chwair people, she was a courtier- a false aristocrat- a traitor to her common blood. And they scorned her. And so she never heard the music again.

A darkly handsome young man inexplicably caught her eye from across the room. He was tall, with an easy laugh and wide smile, and Auré smiled inwardly to watch him throw an arm around Alaerec's shoulder as Elestra looked on, smiling. The newlyweds were several years his senior, as they were to Auré, but the trio obviously knew each other long and well.

Then more people moved and blocked her line of vision, and Auré fought back a yawn, remembering how very tired she was and how late she had stayed up the night before. And then she turned, startled, as her mother dropped down onto the couch beside her.

'What are you doing here alone, my sweet?' Thalassa's words, spoken in the Remalnan tongue, had nearly no accent, and Auré admired her for that, as well as the trick she had of dominating a room, of calling people's attention to her. Auré had no such skill, but nor did she need it.

'Just watching the party, mother,' Auré said patiently. She felt no need to elaborate on her own emotions at the moment. That wasn't how she handled things.

Thalassa sighed, then set her drink down on an intricately-carved redwood table, watching her daughter carefully- those tables, that wood, was another thing Auré didn't understand about these people- their pride in the colourwoods. There were marvels that far surpassed the bright trees in other parts of the world that Auré had seen, even in her own short years- but then, Remalna was a very small country.

'Auré, look at me,' Thalassa said, a commanding tone creeping into her voice, not liking how distracted and tired her daughter was looking. Her daughter complied, although grudgingly.

Thalassa's eyes were searching. 'Daughter, are you so very unhappy being here?'

'No, mother,' Auré said, trying to find the words. 'Just- I will adjust.'

Thalassa nodded. 'You miss your friends.'

Auré lowered her head. She did, but- 'I miss Father, as well.'

A shiver shot up Thalassa's spine. Her husband had been murdered two years before in his gardens at their home in the city, by one of the people who thought they were traitors to their humble beginnings. She had been there. She would not forget it, the blood, the look in her husband's eyes, and momentarily, she wanted to slap her daughter for bringing it up. 'Of course you miss him,' she said finally, briskly. 'I do as well. But as you say, you will get used to living here-'

Auré lifted her head, and Thalassa saw her eyes glittering with tears. 'Perhaps this is a discussion best left for another time.' Auré's voice was firm.

Thalassa watched her daughter leave the couch, and then reached for her drink, feeling very weary and old.

It was hard enough to deal with kings and courtiers, but to raise a growing daughter? No matter how outwardly sweet and placid the pretty girl was, there were hidden depths and strengths there that scared Thalassa slightly, though she knew that Auré would never be a great diplomat or warrior- no, but it scared her because she didn't know, precisely, what the girl was capable of.

-

Auré manoeuvred through the guests with a practised air, making her way towards the door. _Perhaps with some sleep_, she thought, _I can deal with all this better._

She was stopped short, though, when the laughing young man she had been admiring earlier bumped into her arm, then spun about, apologizing profusely. 'I'm so sorry, my lady, I-" A smile quirked his lips suddenly. "I don't believe we've met.'

Auré swept a jerky curtsey, and when she came up, she held out a hand and said shortly, 'My name is Auré, my mother is the ambassador from the land of the Chwair, and no, we haven't met.'

She watched the man's eyebrows lift at her accent and stilted words, and cursed herself for it. Nevertheless, the young man bowed over her hand, then kissed it. Her cheeks grew hot, but she eyed the tapestry to make her escape all the same.

'I'm the Duke of Savona- though I don't suppose that means much to you. Nadav, my name's Nadav. You're one of the Chwair, then, Auré?'

This man _was_ handsome, and Auré felt the urge to flee- and sleep- disappear. 'Yes, your grace.'

'The common people? Truly? And you're here, and you got out alive? What a feat. Call me Nadav.' His smile widened into a grin. 'The women there must be very beautiful, Auré.'

She was finding it hard to follow this conversation. He was distracting her. 'Not all that beautiful, I do not believe, no more so than other countries.'

'Then _you're_ simply very, very beautiful.'

Auré grew still hotter. Not that she didn't appreciate it, but all the same, she wasn't used to it- 'As I said, my mother is the ambassador, so I think it was no great feat to come here... and I thank you for your kind words, though I fear the compliment misplaced...'

'I assure you, it isn't.' Nadav took Auré on his arm. 'Come with me and meet the hosts. Have you? No, I didn't think so. They'd love to meet you, particularly Elestra. She seems to be your type. And I just thought the king of Chwairsland was very uptight about that sort of thing, people going across the borders from either way, talking to foreigners and all that. Especially if you're of common blood.'

Auré looked at him out of the corner of her eye. 'Do you think you have such an excellent judgement of my character already, your grace?' she asked, deciding it would be wisest to focus on one aspect of his words, for she feared she'd soon go dizzy, listening to this man talk.

Nadav just laughed easily. 'Indeed, my little foreign spitfire, I'm considered by many to be a good judge of people.'

Auré was turning this over in her head, wondering if the spitfire bit was an insult, when they came upon Alaraec and Elestra. The two were talking- arguing- amicably, but turned when Nadav and Auré approached.

Putting a hand forth immediately, Elestra grasped Auré's free hand with warmth. 'You must be the ambassador's daughter, dear, you look just like her.' Alaerec just smiled down at Auré. They all seemed to be exceptionally tall in Remalna, something she hadn't noticed in the days before. Or perhaps it was just this group of people-

Auré nodded. 'Yes- that is, congratulations on your marriage,' she said, a little desperately. 'I wish upon you many happy years together.'

The newlyweds beamed. 'Yes,' Nadav said, 'we can wish it... though I wonder...'

They laughed. 'How do you find Remalna- Auré, isn't it?' Elestra asked, brushing a strand of her dark brown hair back to its spot in her elaborate hair arrangement.

'It's cold,' Auré said, then swore at herself violently in her head for being so very unpleasant, and added quickly 'But the snow is very beautiful.'

Elestra kept smiling, though she disagreed, saying 'I'm afraid spring's the season for me. I do hope you have a splendid time here, my dear.'

_What can I say?_ 'Then we wish for the same thing.' Auré kept her tone light and friendly.

Nadav drew Auré away. 'Come, then, and listen to my friend's music. She's a wonder with the harp, I'm sure you've never heard the like,' he said, then laughed. 'Well, that's probably not true. I'll assume you're very well travelled.'

'Far too much for my taste.' Auré cast a glance over her shoulder as she was led away to an adjacent room, and was not so surprised to find Alaerec laughing and kissing his wife on the cheek as she whispered in his ear.

Auré felt confused as Nadav talked away. Why had he taken such a sudden interest in her? Why did she like him so much? Why-

A disagreeable-looking red-haired man, of the same age as Auré and Nadav, cut across their path. Auré's fingers unconsciously tightened on Nadav Savona's arm as the young man's watery blue eyes focussed on her own dark ones, and Nadav, sensing her discomfort, reached up to cover her hand with his own.

'His Highness, Prince Galdran,' Nadav said quietly. Immediately, Auré dropped into a deep curtsey as Nadav continued, 'Might have the pleasure of introducing to you the daughter of the ambassador from Chwairsland, my lord?'

Galdran nodded to her curtly, then said to Nadav in a low voice snapping with anger, 'Have you seen my fool of a father?'

Nadav answered him calmly. 'No, my lord, not since yesterday evening. Might I enquire-'

'No.'

Auré kept her lashes down, but flicked her eyes up to examine the man. He was tall, yes, and of evident royal breeding, from his stance and manners- but his face looked boated from drink and easy living, and what of how he spoke of his father, the king?' Galdran- he wasn't right. He was just obviously corrupted, just like the mage-king of Chwairsland- just- _bad_, enough to send a shiver down her spine just from standing near to him.

Galdran stalked out of the room, brushing the tapestry aside impatiently.

Auré looked up to find Nadav watching her carefully, and he said, in as quiet a voice as before, 'How do you like our prince?'

'I don't- he...'

Nadav closed his eyes for a second. 'I agree with you wholeheartedly, but Auré, be careful where you say that, and who you say to. He has people...'

'I know. I- I know. You need not say it twice. But- that man will be king?

'Yes, stars help us all, within a few years. His father is old, and his mind and strength are both failing.'

Auré shivered as before, and Nadav put an arm around her shoulders, a liberty she never had allowed another man before- but Nadav was different, and she trusted him wholly, blindly, beyond all reason, though she had met him only short minutes before. He just felt _right_.

-

They were married on Midsummer's Day; Russav was born two years later. And slowly, under Galdran's new reign, the kingdom fell into decay.


	4. Flight

Auré tried to hold back her sobs as she and Nadav raced through the shadowed halls hand-in-hand, but failed miserably. Choking breathlessly, the tears traced their way over her cheeks as they hurried into the soft-coloured parlour she had decorated on her own.

Nadav immediately ran over to the stones of the wall by the fireplace and pried two out with effort, handing to his wife sheaves and sheaves of paper with his own cramped, neat handwriting filling every inch.

Trying to control her shaking, fumbling hands, Auré threw the papers individually into the fire, the words _they're coming for us _chasing their way through her head, leaving her dizzy and sick with fright.

They had minutes- less- until Galdran's men burst into the Savonas' rooms to take the two of them away, and Auré couldn't let them find Nadav's plans, his plots… and she would die before they came near Russav. She had never felt so scared, never, not even while living among the bloody intrigue of the Chwairsland court.

With a start, she realized her little boy was nearly underfoot, curled up on soft velvet cushions with cheeks turned rosy from the heat of the flames. When she saw his face, Auré was utterly lost to crying and dropped the papers to the floor.

'Take him into our bedroom,' Nadav called up to her as he patiently stooped to toss the sheets she'd dropped on the floor into the ash-choked fireplace. Auré caught her son up in her arms with some amount of effort, for he was a strong, tall lad, even with only five years to his name.

Her bottom lip trembled as she hurried through a maze of rooms and hallways to the bedroom she and Nadav had chosen for our own. It was safely hidden from all prying eyes; only a few people had come across it, and those who did would never say anything. The Renselaeuses knew. With any luck, they would find Russav before Galdran's men, or anyone else.

Such were the times that they lived in, and Auré had been young when she and Nadav were married, and scared for them both. There were secrets in the walls of Athanarel, of the city, that most wouldn't dare dream of, but Nadav knew them all. Enough to be certain that he would be able to keep his little foreign-born wife safe always, despite the precarious plotting and scheming of the court and country.

Auré shouldered the heavy plainwood door to the bedroom aside and laid her little boy on the thickly silk- and velvet-blanketed bed.

Russav stirred as Auré pulled the blankets up to cover him. 'Mama?' he said drowsily.

She fought back my tears and answered him with as steady a voice as she could manage. 'I'm here, baby.'

Russav nodded a little, about to slip back into sleep. Auré stroked his glossy dark curls –as fine as any girl's, and already the envy of many- with a hand that began to shake again. _My boy will be a heartbreaker, _Auré knew suddenly when she saw how his hair fell on his face, how the black crescent of his eyelashes brushed his cheek. _He will love passionately, and live happily. And I will miss it all-_

She knelt down and whispered, almost to herself, for Russav was slipping into a sleep like one of the dead, 'Sleep sweetly, my son. I love you.'

''Love you too, Mama,' he murmured.

Auré knew he didn't really hear his mother's words, that he would forget she was ever talking to him by the morning, but she couldn't help herself. Perhaps he would remember, years from now. So Auré kept whispering into his ear, accent heavy on her voice in a way it hadn't been for years, trying to block out everything, all the fears crowding her mind. 'Russav, never be afraid to stand up for what's right-'

For she didn't regret anything she and Nadav had done- the only, only thing she _did_ regretwas leaving a little boy behind with no parents. He would suffer for it.

Auré realised her husband was standing behind her only when he put a hand on her shoulder. 'We have to go now,' he said, voice shaking only a little, but still Auré clutched Russav's fingers.

'I'll always love you, Russav, Mama and Papa will always be there for you, even if you don't see us- your wedding day, when you have your babies, your grandbabies…'

Nadav pulled Auré up gently, and she clung to him, shaking, as he kissed their son on the cheek.

'He'll be all right, Auré,' he said to her as he slipped a black cloak onto her shoulders and up over her head. 'If nothing else, I'm sure the Renselaeus family will take him in. He'll be happy, he'll be cared for- I made sure, months ago, that our estate is secure in going to him if we-'

He stopped, face ashen and grave, and then led his little wife by the hand to the narrow glass window over the gardens outside. Laboriously, he pulled himself up and through, then leapt to the ground easily.

Auré could see him beckoning for her to follow, but she stopped and, wide-eyed, stared at her face unseeingly in the gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall, barely noticing how sorrowful and haggard her pretty face was. Struck with the horror of the situation, she realized for the first time that while she and Nadav were trying to get away- before _they_ came- there was no real chance that they would survive.

The Savonas would be murdered. There was no escaping Galdran.

With one last forlorn look at Russav, Auré thought, _Will history and my son both forget in time?_ And then with a sweep of her cloak- she was gone

_Notes on the Names:_

Auré- Pronounced OR-ay. Both this and Thalassa are Greek, I believe, though I certainly may have mangeld it.

Nadav- Yeah, I got it from Sherwood- just that he was Tamara and Russav's son, and from there I deduced it may have been the name of Russav's murdered father. Sentimentality, and all that.

Alaraec/Alaerec- A subtle difference, yes, but Alaraec is Mel and Danric's son; Alaerec is Danric's dad.

Just in case you wanted to know...


	5. Tears in the Night

The long shadows of the midnight hour spilled across the floor of Vidanric's bedroom in random patterns, turning the world to a phantom realm of blue and grey. Vidanric was frightened for a moment, heart thudding violently, for he couldn't think of why he'd awoken so suddenly. Eyes bleary from sleep, he squinted out at the dark night sky through the tall window above his bed.

And then he remembered, and turned his head slightly on his pillow.

Russav, the young, newly made Duke of Savona and Vidanric's closest friend since babyhood, was sobbing brokenly in the bed opposite Danric's, curled up on his side. It was painful to listen to him. Heart-wrenchingly so.

Eyes already adjusting to the darkness, Vidanric winced and blinked in pain as a young maid knelt by the fireplace and whisper the Words of Power over the Firestick nestled inside, setting it aflame and sending a warm, red-orange glow throughout the large bedroom.

Danric sat up in bed, wide awake by this point, and stared as a foot servant led Elestra, Vidanric's mother, into the room and over to Russav's bed.

Wordlessly, Elestra dropped her cloak to the floor and, heedless of her fine dancing gown, gathered Russav up in her arms. She rocked him tightly- back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, humming and comforting in that odd way mothers have, until the little boy's sobs died away to hiccoughing.

She held him close, though, until Russav drifted into dreams of his murdered parents.

Vidanric watched the black-shadowed figures of his mother and best friend all the while, but when his mother stood up, hand at her throat, he lay back down and shut his eyes, feigning sleep.

They snapped open again a moment later when Elestra knelt down at his bedside with a soft rustling of skirts, drawing the blankets up around her son.

'Danric?' she whispered, green eyes very bright for some reason. Seeing him awake, she reached out and caressed his face tenderly. 'I'm sorry, go back to sleep, dear. I've a busy day planned tomorrow.'

Danric couldn't understand why there was a tear coursing down her own cheek. He answered her: 'I'm sorry, Mama. I couldn't make him laugh.'

'Oh, Vidanric.' Elestra laughed shakily and quietly, fighting back the trembles in her hands and voice as she smoothed his blankets. Her rings shone in the pale moonlight. 'That's all right. I know you tried.'


	6. Insomnia and the Aftermath

_Vidanric's parents, not children._

Elestra didn't sleep that night.

She didn't know why, either. But from the time dusk fell, to when the smoky pink-grey of dawn light appeared far over the edges of the surrounding buildings, she felt wider awake than she usually was during the day.

She had curled herself up on a bed of cushions by the fire, occasionally reading a few passages in the research book she was studying, more often dipping into the juicy memoirs of her ancestors. But her mind could not focus on either of these.

So it came as no surprise, somehow, when just after dawn, her young maid Yerlis appeared at the tapestry of Elestra's suite of rooms- or rather, what used to be her suite of rooms, for Elestra did not live in her family's tall, narrow townhouse any longer, not since her marriage to Alaerec a few months before, though she did visit with her mother and father when her husband was away on his tour of duty.

'What is it, dear?' Elestra asked of Yerlis, voice slightly hoarse from her all-night vigil. 'Is anything the matter?' Not that she felt overly concerned, more curious than anything else. No one had ever bothered to wake her in the morning; normally, they let her lie abed as long as she wished.

Yerlis swallowed hard, and Elestra sat up straight, books slipping to the floor, when her sharp eyes focussed on the sight of a tear slipping down the maid's cheek.

'There's a messenger a the door- it's Alaerec, my lady, his ship was attacked, he-'

She could go no further, and wiped at her eyes.

Elestra went very still, hand at her throat. At the sight of her mistress's chalk-white face and lips, Yerlis was moved to say, 'Oh, my lady, I'm so sorry…'

After many long seconds, Elestra managed to choke out at last 'He's dead, then?' She could feel her heart and mind slowly going numb to the shock.

Horrified, Yerlis said quickly 'Oh, no, _no_, my lady, that is- he's not dead, not yet. They took him to his parents' rooms at the Residence.'

Before Yerlis even realized it, Elestra was up and across the room, trying to get past her maid to leave the house. 'Wait,' Yerlis said with desperation, 'Mistress, you aren't dressed, you can't go out in the city wearing nothing but your nightclothes...'

Elestra turned to look at her maid. Yerlis was taken aback to see that Elestra had yet to shed a tear, and for a brief moment thought her mistress callous and unfeeling, then cursed herself for even considering such a thing when she heard how her lady's voice shook as she said 'Then dress me, please, I must- I must go to him.'

--

Her parents were still sleeping when Elestra tore outside, accompanied by the footman Josef and the Renselaeus's messenger. Elestra's family kept their horses at a rented stable two streets down, and Elestra hadn't the time to fetch them.

Oblivious to herself, Elestra cut a frantic figure, flying through the streets with her black cloak snapping in the wind. When she arrived at the gates of the Residence, the guards, startled, stiffened and put a hand to the hilt of their swords at the sight of the three figures tearing towards them through the fog. As Elestra came closer, though, they recognized her and drew aside. 'He's holding on, my lady,' one whispered sympathetically in her ear as she passed.

Elestra pulled her skirts up more securely and ran through the mist across the cobblestones to the Residence, while the messenger and Josef, winded, stopped to whisper with the guards at the gate.

Once inside, she ran still faster, regardless of her short and laboured breathing and the maids who watched her with mournful eyes as she passed.

Finally she stopped short, world spinning, certain she was lost. And then she recognized one of the Healers, a young woman of her own age who had grown up down the street from Elestra, standing outside the tapestry of- ah, the Renselaeus' rooms.

'How is he-'

'Still holding on, Elestra.' The Healer watched her carefully, then reached forward and, patting her cheek, added, 'He'll be fine, sweeting, now that you're here.'

Elestra tore off the scarf that bound back her hair with shaking fingers. 'What happened? No one-'

She swallowed and looked past her friend's shoulder at the tapestry behind, listening to the sound of the hurried footsteps within, then came back to reality with a start when her the Healer put a hand to her shoulder.

'Elestra- all right, I'll tell you, for,' and now the woman looked grave, 'I fear no one else will.'

'I thank you for that,' Elestra said, feeling tears well up for the first time.

'He was wounded two days ago. A man named Greyde- he boarded, and- life! No one but Alaerec and the cook were left alive, and the cook only because he hid down in the mess hall. He took Alaerec ashore by rowboat, and then they patched him up right away and took him here to the city by carriage and-'

'But- but why is everyone saying that he's still holding on? How bad is it really?'

The Healer looked still more mournful. 'He's pretty bad off. They patched him up, but the wound, it's infected still, and we're trying everything we can, but…' The Healer trailed off, and Elestra finally noticed how exhausted and drained the woman's face was.

'Get some sleep,' Elestra said finally, 'I'm certain you've done your best.'

'No rest for those who need it, Elestra, you know how it is. He'll be fine-'

Further shouts came from the Renselaeus's rooms, and then the woman ran down the hall.

'Oh-'

Elestra stood outside the still tapestry for a moment, fighting for courage- and then she pushed it aside and entered.

Alaerec's father looked up at his son's wife. There were lines on his face that Elestra was certain were not there the week before, when she had seen him last.

'Go in,' the prince of Renselaeus said. 'He's been asking for you.'

It took all of Elestra's summoned courage to force her legs to move towards the door, and when they did, she felt the world whirl 'round her.

And then she was by Alaerec's bedside, and there was relief in his eyes as she sank to the floor beside him and clutched at his hand.

'I'm here, my love.'


	7. Voyage

'Let go, Elestra- eurghh- I know, I know- take care of the cat, will you? Mother, please, yes, love you too, but look, the carriage is waiting- bye! Love you all-'

And with that, Oria tore herself away from her family, kissed one piteously wailing grey cat on the forehead, and ran down the stone steps towards the idle carriage sent by the Dryanarya academy waiting below. The wind tossed and lifted Oria's pale blonde hair and random, warning drops of rain bespattered her black cloak as she hauled herself into the carriage on her own- she was short, there was no footman about, and the surly-looking driver slouched low on the seat looked as though he wasn't stirring to help her anytime soon. Her trunks were tied and strapped securely to the top of the carriage already, for which Oria was grateful.

She settled herself inside, feeling very uncomfortable with the hard wood of the uncushioned seat biting into her leg and back. One thought slipped her mind- _Really, if all those people at the academy are magicians, can't they at least conjure up decent means of transportation?_

And then, with a jolt, the carriage started up and wound its way through the tortuously complex streets of Remalna city.

--

After a few minutes of finding a decent position on the seat, Oria shut her eyes and leaned her head back. She could feel tears starting up behind her eyes, but fought them back with valour, grateful at least that she hadn't cried in front of everyone in her family. _Oh,_ she thought a little mournfully, _perhaps I should have waited a few years before I went away- _

But there, that was being silly. Hadn't she wanted this for years, hadn't she wanted to learn magic from professionals ever since she learned there were places that taught such things?

Oria pursed her lips, a habit which her mother often laughed at (saying it made her look like a prudish old woman)- _but then, Mama isn't here now._ _Burn it, I miss everyone already-_

A voice that sounded like her father's sounded in her head. _Brace up, my little girl, it can't be too horrible, now, can it? You haven't even got out of the city. Give it a chance. Give them a chance. Don't quit before you've begun._

Oria slowly slipped into an awkward sleep.

--

A chill wind brushed the princess's cheek as she woke in fits and starts from a fevered sleep. Frowning from a headache, and knowing she was coming down with a dreadful cold, she brushed a few strands of clinging hair away from her hot neck and sat up. The door to the carriage was wide open, the driver pulling down Oria's trunks with undignified grunts.

Oria rubbed her cheek. They were in Sartor already? Surely, it had only been an hour since they had left Remalna. Broken bits of dreams flooded her mind-

(wind- horses made of wind- living breathing wind- grey and purple and white, pale white- a driver flicking in and out of existence- black then red then not there at all)

but she dismissed them, though uneasily-

'Here already?' Oria asked of the driver, now waiting impatiently for her. She was a little nervous to meet his eyes, and then startled to see how young and normal-looking he was- a few years older than her, if that, vividly blue eyes peering out from under a low-brimmed hat.

He gave a curt nod in reply to her words.

'Follow me, miss,' he said as he turned and began to trudge up a stone path which traced its way up a hill which traced its way through a dark forest of green, ever green, despite the fact that there were mounds of snow covering the ground. There was a enormous plainwood stable to the left- Oria could see that it was filled with horses- but there was no one else about.

At the sight of her surroundings, Oria narrowed her eyes. _Western Sartor- the seasons-they aren't so different than those of Remalna, are they? It was summer when I left- And where… where is everyone?_

Grateful for the warmth of her father's lengthy black cloak, the one he'd cryptically warned her she'd need, Oria followed the driver up the hill, picking her way carefully on the ice-slick rocks. Within minutes she was panting, though the driver looked not at all out of breath. The muscles on the backs of her legs screamed in protest, and Oria rather wished that she'd kept up with her exercises as faithfully as she had kept with her studies.

As the pair crested the hill, Oria's breath caught in her throat- not that she could afford breath catching anywhere- at the sight of the Dryanarya academy, her home-to-be for the next several years.

It was- majestic, formidable, impressive in every sense of the word. Seven stories high, built of a smooth white stone shot through with pink, black, and purple, the architecture amazed even the princess born in a palace.

The driver hadn't waited for Oria. He was going through the double doors now, the intricately carved doors that were three times as tall as he was. Oria let out a short puff of breath and waited for her beating heart to return to normal before she moved again.

And once she was inside? The great hall, the cavernous foyer, was filled with people. People of different ages, and sizes, and races- to her left, a young man and woman, both of black hair and eyes and creamy coffee-coloured skin, perched atop a window ledge, were leaning over a funny, deep-bellied stringed instrument. A young boy with colourless, white hair and pale, pale blue eyes (and those were truly white, as well) raced across her path, shouting gleefully in Sartoran as he chased a girl twice his age, a girl with curling blonde hair and liquid brown-and-gold- eyes, a girl who looked as though she could only be his sister, from the resemblances between the two.

Quite a few people stared at Oria. A girl with a cat-like, cheerfully insolent face met her eyes brazenly.

Oria took set her lips and feet together and waited for an elderly woman, dressed richly and regally, to make her way through the riotously noisy throng towards her. This would certainly be an interesting experience.

--

_This is a tad more cheerful, no? Happy Holidays to all._


	8. Elenet

Elenet was tired.

Her weariness was a tangible presence; it followed her everywhere, it settled on her shoulders till she was bowed over with the weight of it. She was on the verge of complete physical and mental exhaustion, but there was nothing she could do about it but push through the muck that her life had become, and hope for the best.

Elenet was, actually, pushing through muck. Her boots slipped and slid in the mud as she hurried through the slim birch trees of the riverbed, one thought in her head and that being just to get away for a moment. Life, she was tired. She just wanted to lie down and sleep for a hundred years.

She emerged from the woods and stood on an outcropping of rock over the spring melt-swollen brook, and she looked down at it, steadying her short breathing so she wouldn't begin to weep like a child. She sank to her knees, oblivious to the wetness of the rocks beneath her, and pushed the heels of her hands sharply into her eyes, grey-blue eyes now welling with tears. Her lips twisted with a sort of inexplicable grief.

_I need to get out of here_, she thought desperately. _I need to get out of Grumareth, I need to see new people, I need to talk to Nee, I need to-_

Elenet's heart gave a short, painful throb. _I need to see Vidanric again._

She completely let herself go and began to sob. _Why must I be stuck here to fix the mistakes of my great-uncle?_ her mind raged. _It isn't my fault, why must I be doomed to hole myself up here forever? Why must I be forced away from the ones I love dearest? Why must everyone else's lives carry on without me, why is it that they do not miss me?_

Oh, Nee missed her, a little, Elenet thought bitterly. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out Nimiar's latest letter from the pocket of her brown cloak. Nee's letter was proof of the light-hearted happiness Elenet was certain she herself would never know.

'Bran's home is a delight, Elenet. His sister, apparently, has done wonders in fixing it up- it's at the most beautiful spot, atop the mountains, in the trees- and the sunset! And they have a _Mandarel_! Bran and Meliara's mother's. No one's used it for years. I feel like I could make the music of kings in this castle. You must come see it, once… once Branaric and I are married.

'I miss you so, dear Elenet. It's been too long since I've seen you, a lifetime. You will come to Athanarel for my wedding, won't you? Write me back soon, Elenet, your letters mean so much to me.

'I rather think that you would like Bran's sister, Meliara. The hero of the country and the shyest, most awkward soul I've laid my eyes on. I must draw her out somehow- I've yet to figure out how I'll manage that. Never fear, I'll do it- and I want to, truly, she seems lovely. There's something off, though, between Meliara and Vidanric, I'm not sure what- she can hardly bear to look at him, let alone speak to him- they did end up on the same side in the end, after all, didn't they? He acts somewhat strange around her as well- hardly noticeable, but I've known him since we were children- I shall investigate it further.'

Elenet's stomach clenched with an unbearable horror that rose into her throat. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what Nee had meant- even unknowingly- in those last few lines. Vidanric was in love with the Astiar girl, Elenet _knew_, with the assuredness of one whose life had known little but loneliness and depression, and she couldn't stand it.

Elenet loved him so much, she had since they were small, but she'd never done anything- she learned how to hide her feelings, just as the other courtiers masked their emotions, she was friendly and distant and calm around Vidanric though she longed for him with all her heart.

She had this irrational fear of letting anyone know, and so had become, at an early age, a mistress of evasion, a veritable mage in turning other's conversation from herself and love. She knew, life, she_ knew _nothing would ever, ever happen if she said nothing to Vidanric, if she watched from the sidelines as the other girls threw themselves at his head. Elenet wanted him to tell her he loved her. But he never would. And she would never let on that she loved him.

Elenet's tears slowly quieted as she turned her focus on fighting everything back with an admirable, although misplaced, determination. She rose to her feet and, with an impatient gesture, tossed Nee's letter into the swirling swollen brook below.

She watched from above as the sheet of paper turned translucent, as the black ink bled into the water, then turned and made her way back through the trees to her home. Her boots made squelching noises in the wet yellow grass as she crossed the valley fields. Elenet smoothed her hair and, head bowed again with the weight of her burdens, schooled her face into careful lines.

_It's been too long since I laughed._

_--_

_It's now confirmed, I'm only good at angst. Happy-Not-Studying-For-Exams-Day to me (shh)._


	9. Her First

The little clearing in the mountain forest was bustling with activity, now productive, not destructive. People were tending to the casualties of both sides of the conflict, rounding up prisoners, wiping swords clean- and setting up tents, for dusk was fast approaching.

But Meliara and Vidanric stood facing each other motionlessly, knee-deep in drifted snow—thigh-deep, in Meliara's case.

Between them on the ground was a dead man.

He was an ugly character, if one judged a book by its cover; his craggy, distorted features were already ashen-grey in the cold, though he had been dead less than five minutes. Meliara's legs shook and she tried very hard not to look at the corpse- the first person she'd killed and, stars above, she hoped he would be the last.

Those minutes kept replaying in her head- _him_, that man, running towards her, sword swinging for a fatal blow, dark tangled hair streaming in the wind. And now that hair was matted with blood, and tossed across the snow, for she had reacted in the only way she could at the moment, and-

Mel put one hand on her stomach and pressed the back of the other to her mouth. She'd be sick in another moment, she knew, it was a matter of _when_, not _if_, it would happen.

She hadn't even noticed that she had fallen to her knees in the snow until Vidanric was leaning beside her worriedly, oblivious of the wet snow, asking what was wrong.

Mel was light-headed, and dizzy, and all he could find herself whispering was 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I…'

'Mel, what are you talking about?'Danric wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth, seizing her own cold one now lying limply at her side. 'I'm sorry, Mel, that I wasn't there to help you-'

Mel couldn't say anything for fear of throwing up spectacularly, but, to her own frustration, felt herself begin to cry.

Hazily, Meliara watched her husband's grey eyes narrow with concern. 'You did what you had to, to protect yourself, and the people in the village,' he said. 'Oh, Mel…'Vidanric reached up to brush a lock of hair out of her face, and at the same moment, they both realized that his hand was red and dripping with blood.

Meliara sucked in a harsh gasp of air, then looked down at herself. From her wrist to up past her elbow, she saw as Vidanric cut away the sleeve of her tunic, a deep, jagged, gaping cut bit into her flesh.

A cacophony of shouting voices met her ears. As if from a great distance, Mel saw the duke of Savona race over, unusually grim and thin-lipped, leading a young man that she vaguely recognized to be a healer.

Then the pain hit her all at once, and she slumped, unconscious, against her husband's shoulder.

I don't know where this came from. I apologize- actually, I think it's a snippet from my…er… 'dumped' Norsundrian Wars that I adapted. Silly claptrap. Anyway… I have to stop it with the melodrama. Hopefully my muses will inspire me with something interesting.


	10. Roses

Roses.

Ranisia's lips curled in a slight smile. She reached out of the carriage and snapped one of the pink blooms deftly off its branch, blue eyes shadowed.

_Mel would love to see this flower_, Ranisia thought. Wistfully she fingered the rose that lay in her black-cloaked lap. Her little daughter, darling Meliara, amazed at the world and constantly discovering new beauties and wonders. It was just last week that Mel had pulled her mother anxiously through the castle, the gardens, and the surrounding cliffs and forests, on a winding path to a pile of grey stone ruins in a clearing.

'Clever girl, how did you find this?' Ranisia had cooed, delighted at the sightfor curling its way through the wreck of stone blocks was a multitude of grasping, choking, coldly beautiful green vines blooming bright with red roses.

Meliara hadn't answered, only smiled secretly, brilliant hair a striking red-gold in the morning light.

Carefully trying not to think of her little girl for fear she'd start to cry, Ranisia peered through the window at the troubled grey sky. 'Looks like rain,' she said, fanning her face. It would rain, indeed- the air was heavy and humid and _hot_.

'Mistress, _please_! Keep your head in!' The maid's gaze was reproving.

'Very well, if it worries you so.'

Ranisia was leaving Tlanth for the first time since her marriage- a long time, and for reasons best kept secret from the rest of the country. Ranisia was to learn magic- for the good of a country and a people bowed and gagged by fat greedy King Galdran, who would surely kill her if he caught wind of her plans.

The official word was that she was off to visit relatives in the city.

Ranisia tossed the rose onto the dusty road, where it was quickly crushed by the following luggage carriage. She tugged her cloak farther over her face, obscuring the red tendrils curling over her forehead, and drifted off to sleep.

'Mistress, please, m'lady, wake up, please…'

Ranisia blinked groggily. The maid was bending over her, face drawn and white.

'What- oh, life, it's not- is it?'

The maid nodded, swallowing hard. 'Please, mistress, the driver says it's bandits, or-'

Ranisia's eyes were wide and unseeing. 'No,' she said softly. 'It's his men.'

A single tear dropped down the maid's nose as the pounding of many hooves became audible.

'Don't worry,' Ranisia said, 'they've no quarrel with you, they can't hurt you, don't worry, darling-' then she stood up and banged on the upholstered carriage wall behind the driver's seat.

'Isn't there any way we can get away? Can we cut across the fields, or- burn it-'

The driver's muffled reply was curt. 'Short of sprouting wings, I can't see how, m'lady.'

Ranisia's coaches were drawn up short as a troop of filthy men dressed as brigands surrounded them in a cloud of brown dust.

Ranisia's mind was racing through the few spells that she knew, desperate for something that would save her and her servants, even as a narrow-eyed man yanked open the carriage door, even as she was pulled to the road with the rest of her staff, even as she was faced down by a dozen hardened soldiers.

But she couldn't do it.

So she said, carrying on the façade that these men were brigands out for the riches of nobles, 'What is it that you want with us? We've no money...'

The narrow-eyed man drew a fearsome-looking sword from its sheath with a ringing if metal.

The man smiled.

'Oh,' said Ranisia. The maid started to sob.

It began to rain.


	11. A Rush of Blood

In the dim light of the dying fire, Russav eyed his fingers petulantly. They were dripping dark blood from a slice across the palm of his left hand, blood which was now drying and stiffening and causing his hand to itch horrendously along with the white-hot pain of the wound. The cut was all his fault, which explained the petulant look.

Russav had just been very stupid, that was all. And he should have learned long before this particular incident that it didn't pay to be stupid or silly when you were play-duelling with Vidanric, for though they were both quite young yet, Vidanric had had the best training and teachers there were to be had. It also didn't generally pay to drop your sword mid-combat and then cut yourself picking it back up because Vidanric was coming perilously close to bashing you upside the head.

Now, flopped down in the front room of his suite, all Russav could do was look at his hand. He didn't know much about taking care of cuts and scrapes and any sort of illness. He hadn't needed to. But all the members of his extensive staff were either off for the day, or otherwise occupied somewhere else. Russav had a vague idea that he was supposed to put pressure on the cut- tie it up, bandage it- but his own stupidity was making him cross and so, he sat there surrounded by velvet-soft cushions in his practise clothes, flexing his bleeding hand and tapping his boots together.

The sound of footsteps from the hall reached his ears.

'Ru- Savona?' Tamara Chamadis called softly, tapping on the wall outside the tapestry. 'Are you in there?'

Russav sat up straight, brushing his good hand quickly through his dark curls.

'Um-' He cleared his throat. 'Yes- what- hi!'

Tamara ducked inside. 'Vidanric said you ran off,' she said, smoothing the lines of her dress deftly. 'Whatever did you do to yourself?'

Russav stood, feeling very useless, and offered his hand. 'I… cut myself,' he said lamely.

Tamara took the hand gently and examined it as any Healer might, pulling Russav closer at the same time. 'Dear, I'm not going to ask how you cut yourself on your own sword hand.' Russav flushed. 'But you needn't be a child about it and sulk in your rooms. You really ought to bandage it. Where are your people?'

'They're… not here,' Russav said, starting to feel awkward at Tamara's nearness and assessing glances.

'All right.' Tamara set her lips and let go of Russav's hand, reaching into her skirt pocket.

'What are you-'

Tamara pulled out a finely embroidered handkerchief and pressed it tightly against Russav's palm as he hissed in pain. 'Here,' she said, winding it around his hand quickly. 'Hold that there.'

Russav complied, grimacing, as she tied it up. 'You didn't have to do that, you know,' he said, softening his voice and his face- 'You're very kind.'

Tamara smiled a little. 'Don't be silly. You're just like a little boy. When you hurt yourself, you do something about it.'

Russav kissed her on the cheek.


	12. Wagers

_AN- I was pretty unhappy with my last update, so I just went back and changed it around a bit. Thanks so much to all you guys who've stuck around so far to read- although thanks to the trusty new hits counter, I see all of you lurkers who're reading and not reviewing- if you liked the stories so far, if you didn't, if you have any suggestions (I'm pretty much out of ideas), please drop a line. I'd really appreciate it. I just realized how long it's been since I updated, so I cobbled this together. Hope you like!_

* * *

Vidanric leaned on a fence rail and grinned up at Russav, perched atop one of the posts with a gleefully wild look on his face. They were watching some of the reckless young courtiers tear across the rolling hills of a farm on the outskirts of the city, in a mad horserace towards a low and crumbling stone wall.

"Khesin'll never make it," Vidanric said in a provoking tone, knowing Russav idolized the older boy. He turned his face back to the racers. "You watch. He'll be thrown at any moment. He sits the horse terribly."

Not in the mood to be all that bothered, Russav wrinkled his nose at his friend and shaded his eyes against the blazing summer sun and blue sky. "You're delusional, Danric," he said cheerfully. "I'll wager you all the money on me that he'll beat Tursath by three horselengths."

"How much money is that?"

There was a long pause. "Dunno. A bit."

"Fine. Against?"

The aforementioned Duchess Tursath, a girl with brilliant brown hair streaming behind her in the wind, reached the wall first with a triumphant yell.

Russav lowered his hand. "Nevermind. I was only joking anyway."

"D'you really think I'll let you off that easily?" Vidanric asked wryly, tapping his fingers against the wooden fence.

* * *

"I'll bet," Russav panted into the crisp air, swinging his sword up for another parry, "that I can hit you- more times- in five minutes-"

"Time us, Deric," Danric called to their watching companion, lazily slumped against the outer wall of the practice hall.

"Oof," Russav protested as Vidanric thwacked him on the side with his sword. "That shouldn't count, I wasn't paying attention!"

"Your fault." Vidanric narrowly avoided a hit to his legs by hopping away over the cobblestones and crunching autumn leaves.

* * *

"You look bored, Savona," Renna commented drily, making her move on the table. "That doesn't bode well."

Russav rested his chin on his arms. "I _am _bored. And it's too hot in here. Care to make the game a bit more interesting, Danric?"

Vidanric, sitting by a window and thoughtfully gazing outside at the swirling winter blizzard, sighed a bit. "What is it now?"

"Tamara," Russav said with a roguish smile, "is terrible at Cards and Shards. I'll bet you my new cloak against- what'll it be? That nifty belt of yours- that she loses to Renna."

Tamara's pink lips made a round O of protest, and she tossed her black hair. "I've never been more insulted! I'm far better at it than any of you!"

Vidanric watched her calculatingly for a moment, then got up and stood behind Savona. "Sure, then."

"Ah, you silly boy." Russav grinned. "You must know how much amusement I take in your gullibility."

Tamara threw down her hand of cards with a happy shout. "There!"

* * *

"Aren't they ridiculous?" Russav whispered to Vidanric from their hidden spot behind a velvet window curtain, watching the skirts of the dancers twirl and bell. "I'll wager you a pocketful of gold that Jervis kisses Trishe tonight."

"I think that's the _stupidest _bet you've made yet. Trishe hates him; she'd never let him do that. He was making fun of her all this week!"

"That doesn't mean a thing, dear Danric. I know these things," Russav said in a maddeningly world-wise way, then sneezed terrifically. He'd been forced to sit out this ball thanks to a leftover winter cold.

"I'm not stupid, Russav." Vidanric swung himself up onto the window ledge as the spring rain drummed noisily on the glass behind him. "Fine then. I'll take it. But you aren't going to win."

Russav leaned back against the wall, looking highly self-satisfied. "Sure I'm not. You watch."

As the two wagered lovers danced closer to Savona and Danric's corner, Jervis stopped suddenly, and pulled Trishe off the dance floor and close to the wall, where no one but the young gamblers could see or hear them. Russav's eyes met Danric's wickedly.

"Trishe," Jervis said in a panicky, nervous sort of way, "I- that is, we-"

"Oh, shut up," Trishe whispered quickly, pulling his face down to hers.

Russav hopped up and down gleefully behind the protection of the red drapery.


	13. Opening Night

AN- I feel so terrible for the lack of updates. Winter usually kills my inspiration dead; I'm sorry!

"Ummmm…"

Elestra kneaded her forehead in a moment of blind panic, wringing the curtains with her other hand. "Um. UM. What was I going to say?"

"That I'm gorgeous and the star of show," Stacia said with a grin. She was a country girl only three months out of Mardgar and an exceptional actress- though it had been quite a hurdle to train her out of her quick, lilting coastal accent into the stylish courtier's drawl of thirty years before. She was playing Tamara Chamadis, and she was brilliant at it.

"Go on. Everything's all set here, you're just making us more jittery." Stacia gave her a little push. "Please. They're all waiting to talk to you, haven't you seen them?"

"Yes I know, but-"

Elestra was dragged by her wrist down the stage steps and through a plushly carpeted side hallway by one of the costumers. "Mmph," she said, taking two needles out from where they were clenched between her teeth. "There. See you after the play. It'll be stunning, don't you fret."

Left alone in the hall, Elestra tucked her hair back self-consciously and worried one shoe into the carpet. After a moment, with a deep breath and a fixed smile on her face, she pushed out through a scarlet tapestry and into the foyer filled with chattering, vividly-dressed people.

Her parents caught her eye first, the featuring characters themselves, talking quietly in one corner with the Duke and Duchess of Savona. Meliara beckoned her second daughter over. "I've never seen us all get so excited about anything in years, Elestra! This is going to be a success, make no mistake about that."

Elestra smiled distractedly, itching for the play to start. "Thank you, Mama. I just hope I didn't mess up everything. I want to do your memoirs justice more than anything else. It's such a fantastic story-"

"No worries," Russav said, silvering hair leaving him more handsome than ever. "You're a very brave girl to do this, you know."

"Oh, I know I've got guts," Elestra said , smiling for real this time with a flash of spirit.

"Mama!" Ranisia's shrill voice cut across the foyer, and Elestra's head snapped to the side. Her daughter was dragging Flauvic across the room, Flauvic shushing her to no avail.

Ranisia leapt up into her mother's arms. Coin-gold eyes bright, cheeks flushed, her hair glinting in the mellow light of the foyer, she traced Elestra's eyebrows with one finger. "When's it going to start, Mama? Papa's being boring."

One of the theatre attendants poked his head through a redwood door, looked around at the crowd, and then pulled the two doors wide.

Elestra shifted Ranisia to her hip. "Right now, sweeting."


	14. Turn of the Season

AN- It's spring. Hopefully that'll light a fire under me, but don't get your hopes up for more regular updates (serious, guys: suggestions). And…. I hate to be a review whore, but seriously, I'm desperate for feedback. Please?

* * *

His bones ached in the damp.

The humid spring air left the old gardener warily eyeing the grey sky. Yes, he decided, you could smell the rain. It would storm that day.

Shaking his head, he knelt slowly, joints protesting every slight movement. Then, as carefully as if he were cradling a newborn, he shifted a fragile, spindly rosebush wrapped in rough fabric from the stone walkway onto the soil he knelt in.

The clouds rumbled their discontent.

The gardener smiled absently at the shrieks and laughter of the lords and ladies eating dinner in the garden. As the sky split and the rain began to pour, the courtiers ran past him in a flash of bright colour, still laughing, their servants following at a steadier pace as they carried the dinnerware and food inside. Patiently he continued his work, cutting away at the fabric, untangling the roots of the plant. Clucking at it indulgently, he set the plant gently into the hole he'd created in the soil.

Heedless of the rain, he patted the soil gently into place around the rosebush and stood ever so carefully, stretching his back with a wince. Somewhat surprised, the old man saw that there were still two people left alone in the garden.

One of them he didn't know. She was as tiny as, he saw, his own wife had been, with masses of what looked like brown hair, now drenched in the rain. She moved slowly along the path, her face turned skywards.

The other person he recognised: the smooth-voiced man they all said would be king. The marquis was turned back to look at the girl- suddenly, she brought her head down sharply at something he said. Her eyebrows drawn together, she answered curtly, and then moved to hurry indoors. The gardener moved respectfully to the side for her to pass- her anger seemed a formidable thing to incur. But the lady smiled at him as she moved closer. "Your garden is beautiful, sir," she said, gathering up her wet skirts.

The gardener nodded, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his spade. She smiled again and hurried up the steps inside, and the old man glanced back. The marquis was still standing on the walkway by himself, staring resolutely at the stone paving.

The old man smiled and turned to go inside.


End file.
